


Gendrification

by apolla



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, coffee shop AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:01:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24260257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apolla/pseuds/apolla
Summary: Flea Bottom had been the worst part of King's Landing for as long as anyone knew, but one thousand years after the events of ASOIAF/GoT, things are changing. As wealthier folks are priced out of Aegon's High Hill and the better parts of Visenya's Hill, Flea Bottom is starting to look mighty interesting to developers looking for their next big score.Gentrification doesn't care about history, nor does it care about the people who already make their lives in a place.Arya Stark, on the other hand, just wants a decent cup of coffee and a place to be left in peace for a while.
Relationships: Arya Stark/Gendry Waters
Comments: 65
Kudos: 120





	1. The Coffee Shop

**Author's Note:**

> I've spent the last few days reading gendrya fic as a coping mechanism and... this happened.
> 
> Will I finish it? I hope so. How long will it be? I don't know. Will I do my best to find a balance between story and all the world-building imaginings of Modern Westeros I have? Sure.
> 
> Am I also doing it to make a point about the destructive nature of gentrification on communities who have just as much right to be in a place as those with more money than them? Almost certainly.

_King's Landing, 1299AC._

History is a slippery thing, coloured by biases, ulterior motives and whose stories even get heard.

One thing all the historians agreed upon in unanimity was this: Flea Bottom was, ever had been and ever would be, the worst of shitholes. It started life as a sewer and, as far as anyone of importance was concerned, it had stayed that way.

Except.

Except, when the prosperous find themselves priced out of the nice bits of a city, they have a habit of taking the closest places and spiffing them up in the name of progress. Commuting is for the middling sort, after all. 

And if the local government already ploughed money in the name of regeneration, so much the better for investors.

So it was in Flea Bottom. In around 1288, Robert 'The Latest' Baratheon ran for Prime Minister on the "Clean Up our Cities!" platform and King's Landing, long home to the kinds of crime that the rich find unappetising, was the first guinea pig. Money flowed into the city, and sometimes even found the people who needed it.

At much the same time, property investment began to take hold as the _must-have_ hobby for the wealthy and bored. Soon even ordinary parts of places like King's Landing and Oldtown found their values soaring beyond sense, even as their boundaries spilt far beyond the old city walls and into the countryside beyond.

Industry was no longer a thing that happened inside cities, and the idea of turning industrial buildings into homes for the well-to-do took off. And so, first the middling sorts, and then the wealthy looked to places like Steel Street and its surroundings on Visenya's Hill. Only once all the possibilities had been exhausted did eyes turn on Flea Bottom, the festering sore of a place on the lower slope of Rhaenys's Hill.

Except nobody asked the existing residents what they thought.

By 1299, when Arya Stark walked into The Coffee Shop, the people who called Flea Bottom home (for better or worse, and usually worse) had lost patience with people who thought throwing money around meant they got to own anything that took their fancy.

The Coffee Shop was so named because, for decades, it had been the only one of its kind in Flea Bottom. Greasy spoon cafes had been ten-a-penny before the money arrived, but only Davos Seaworth saw the wisdom in providing a place where people could buy a decent, inexpensive cup of coffee on their way to work or where they could sit a while out of the rain or scorching heat.

It sat on the corner of King Bran Street where it deviated from the ancient course of Aegon's Way to rise and meet Sister Street to avoid the chaos of traffic at Kingdom Square. It was, locals said, the exact point where Flea Bottom ended, and the rest of the city began.

Most of the Coffee Shop was built from or decorated with what the interior design shows called 'reclaimed materials'. The insides of the building were mostly stripped back to the brick that demonstrated it dated back to the Second Industrial Age. The wood and iron counter looked like it was made from remnants of KingdomRail's construction, and so too did the tables and chairs - they were all fashioned from the sturdy honey-coloured wood that dominated every railway station from King's Landing to the Neck.

Arya _loved_ it, of course. She loved the Second Industrial Age anyway, but there was precious little evidence of it left in King's Landing, demolished and gone in the name of progress.

The chalkboard above the coffee machine was simple:

_Black Coffee, Large - 1dr_

_Black Coffee, Small - 1st_

_White Coffee, Large - 1dr,1cp_

_White Coffee, Small - 1st,1cp_

_Tea, Large - 10cp_

_Tea, Rhoynish - 2st_

_Tea, Naathi, Ghiscari - 2st,5cp_

_Cake, pastries and scoffs - see daily board_

She stood, considering her options. She didn't get a full minute.

'What'll it be?'

'Oh, I hadn't decided yet.'

'Ain't difficult. Coffee or tea?'

'Tea.'

'Proper tea or fancy tea?'

'Rhoynish isn't _fancy_ ,' she said before she could stop herself and before she even looked at the barista.

He was of an age with her, she thought, tall, broad and black-haired. He had a set of sharp blue eyes that looked at her with impatient judgement.

'Might not be for your sort,' he said, gaze flickering up and down her and judging the book by its cover. 'Tis round these parts. What do you want?'

'Coffee. Black. Unless you have oat milk?'

He rolled his eyes. 'We might be simple, but we're not arseholes. If you need oat milk, I've got it.'

'Large coffee with a dash of oat milk, then. Thank you.'

He scoffed in response but turned to make her drink just the same. The Coffee Shop is simple, but the coffee machine is top of the range - by smell alone, the beans are good.

Arya is already fond of the Coffee Shop while she waits; by the time she takes a seat by the window and a sip from her coffee, she is in love with it.

*

In Westeros, there are things you just _know_. Nobody necessarily tells you these facts out loud, but they are facts just the same.

Everyone knows that a dozen ancient families run the show, even if the Kingdoms are nominally democratic. Only a fool would stand against a Tyrell in the Reach, or a Stark in the north, for example - even if the talk these days is that Westeros is a meritocracy.

Progress marches on, but much stays the same. More changes so slowly that it's measured on the same scale as the fossils still being dug out of the Shrinking Sea.

There are certain things everyone _knows,_ and there's nowt to be done about them.

Except Arya Stark never met a stereotype she didn't fancy kicking to pieces with the boots she stole from Jon last time he was on leave.

So, Arya Stark _knows_ that she's not meant to be dicking about in Flea Bottom cafes when she has work to do. She _knows_ she's meant to be finalising the business plan for the bank... and she will. Once she's settled into her seat, and a bit of caffeine has reached her head.

She also knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the dude serving at the only cafe in Flea Bottom, is a Baratheon. There's probably a bit of Sothoryos in there too, but definitely Baratheon.

She won't say anything to him, of course. If anyone is familiar with what it's like to be judged based on how closely you resemble your ancestors, Arya Stark is one of the most qualified people in the entire Kingdom.

She sat for three hours - two and a half of which she used to work - and after 90 minutes, the Definitely A Baratheon took her empty mug.

'You want another one?' he asked, looking at a point just above her head.

'You do table service?'

'Nope. But you can't sit here for free, and you look busy.'

'Unlike you?' she retorted, glancing around the cafe. It's mid-afternoon -they are _not_ overrun.

To Arya's surprise, the Definitely A Baratheon took this as the joke she intended and returns with another large black coffee (a dash of oat milk).

'Pay on your way out.'

'That's trusting.'

'Like I wouldn't know where to find you.'

Of course. Of _course_ , he recognised her.

He pointed at her bag. 'I'd send the lads round to your gym.'

Whether he recognised her or not, she appreciated him not pressing the issue.

Arya stayed for four hours and finished her business plan. She _loved_ The Coffee Shop.

*


	2. In Three Weeks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments so far - I really appreciate them!
> 
> I have no real idea where this is going but it seems diverting enough so hopefully all y'all will enjoy it too!

It took another three weeks of coffee shop visits for the barista to speak to her about anything beyond her order.

'Back again?'

It was progress. For three weeks, she'd arrived and been her absolute most friendly self (which was not, her family would no doubt remind her, not saying much). All she got in return over those three weeks was "what'll it be?" and that glance he always cast over her.

'As you can see,' she replied, aiming for _bright_ but achieving _snark,_ as was her default. 'I'll have your finest Naathi tea and a slice of that cake, please. Is it Dornish gold-cake?'

He shook his head, and Arya tried not to be distracted by the way the unruly black mess fell into his face. She failed. 'It's a local recipe.'

'Well, I'll have a slice. Does it have a name?' Arya was not truly all that fussed about the name of a cake, but it was a way to keep the conversation going.

Over the last three weeks, Arya found she wanted to talk to him. Why exactly this was, she couldn't ascertain, but she made friends easily wherever she went and tended to view resistance to this as a challenge.

That was it. Not the fact he was, even to her generally disinterested eye, absolutely gorgeous.

There were, broadly speaking, two types of Baratheon. The first was like the prime minister: loud, brash and prone to intemperance. The other was like the prime minister's brother Ren: urbane, elegant and prone to epicureanism. Thus it had ever been for generations and centuries, all the way back to the Era of Wars, when Robert Baratheon was a king by conquest rather than a prime minister.

One thousand years might transform almost everything about how the Westerosi lived their lives, but some things remained the same.

The coffee dude - she didn't know because he never wore a name badge - was by appearance if nothing else, in the second of the two Baratheon moulds. Which was just as well, because few things turned her stomach more than Robert Baratheon insisting she call him _Uncle_ Robert when she saw him once a year. She already had perfectly good uncles anyway - hells, Uncle Brandon was enough for _anyone._

The cake was tasty - there was a hint of something, a taste she couldn't _quite_ identify. She scoffed it quickly before turning back to work. 

'Should I start reserving this table for you?' he asked, collecting her crumb-strewn but otherwise empty plate in his tub of used mugs and bits of trash.

'He speaks!'

He rolled his eyes and shrugged at the same time - which she thought was a neat trick she would have to rehearse herself before her next visit home. 'You've been in here every other day for the last three weeks.'

'I'm sorry, I can't tell whether you consider my custom a good or a bad thing.'

'All custom is good custom,' he said, clearly parroting the same business studies textbooks she'd been forced to read during her degree. 

'You don't believe that.'

'No, I don't.'

'Nor do I. But I hope I _am_ a good customer for you.'

'We don't need gentrifiers, thanks.' Before she could reply, he turned away and returned to the counter.

'I am- hey, I'm not-' Before Arya knew what she was doing, she was up on her feet and following him. 'I'm not a gentrifier!'

He angrily swiped a damp cloth along the countertop. 'You're a posh girl swanning around Flea Bottom, what else would you call it?'

She snatched her hands back before he could wipe over them. 'Someone in search of a place to drink half-decent coffee without being surrounded by total twats! However, as I was clearly mistaken, I'll take my custom elsewhere!'

There were two issues for Arya here. Firstly, she had no idea why she'd snapped at him and secondly that she sounded _so much_ like her mother.

Arya's temper was like a gas explosion - sudden, noisy and potentially hugely destructive, but shortlived. Ever had been thus, so she was also well-practised in the art of apologising, which she did with sincerity.

'Sorry,' she said immediately. 'I just- I'm not like _them_.'

He dropped the cloth and folded his arms, staring down at her in challenge. 'You're a rich girl, aren't you?'

'Me? Fuck no.'

'Your parents, then.'

'Yeah. Which is not the same thing, by the way.'

He sighed. 'Whatever you say, your highness. Look, you're going to do whatever you want anyway because your sort always does. Come here, don't come here. But do me a favour and don't bring your little mates.'

'Why would you turn away business?'

'Business like that I could do without! Isn't it enough that you lot want to take our homes out from under us? Isn't it enough that you've all been slagging off Flea Bottom for years right until the point someone decided it was trendy?'

She sighed. He was... not wrong. 'I'm sorry about that, I really am. But that's not me. I just... I like it here, all right? There's precious little old King's Landing left, and I hate this fucking city enough without having to sit in buildings made of steel and chrome two days ago.'

'You're Northern?'

'What gave it away?' she snarked back. The only person who had a northern accent more pronounced than her (south o' the Neck anyway) was her dad. While Sansa had deliberately softened hers, Arya had not.

'Why you down here, then?'

'That's for me to know and you to burn with curiosity over.'

He grinned then. He _grinned_ \- she instinctively knew this was a rarity.

'Look, I think we should start again. I'm Arya.' She stuck her hand out for him to shake.

He looked at her hand like it was an alien creature, but after a brief hesitation reached over the counter and shook it like a normal human being.

'Are you this much of a dick to all your customers?'

'Yep. Don't go thinking you're special, your highness.'

'Oh, I wouldn't dare. But...'

'Yeah?'

'I'll have another slice of cake if it's going?'

'OK. I'll let Harry know it was a success.'

'Harry?'

'He's the baker. You didn't think it was my handiwork, surely?'

'I try not to judge people by how they initially appear.'

'Touché, your highness.'

'Don't call me that.'

'Sorry, your highness.'

'Just get me a slice of fucking cake, will you?'

'Of course, your highness.'

'You know my name now.'

'Yes. Your highness.'

'I don't know your name.'

'Gendry.'

The name rang a bell, and she wasn't sure why. Ah, yes... 'That's an ancient name.'

'Yep.'

'Like, Long Night old.'

'Says _Arya_. I bet you even spell it with the old school "y".'

'Course I do. Didn't you know the Great Families of Westeros are only ever allowed to recycle the same six names over and over again? I'm the 67th Arya Stark since records began.'

'You mean, since Arya the Nightslayer.'

'Yeah. Now, imagine trying to live up to _that_.'

'No, thanks. Here's your cake.'

Arya bit back a joke about how he'd given her a larger slice of cake this time.

'Want some more tea to go with it? I reckon a lighter Astapor tea would go better with the cake than the Naathi. It's a bit strong.'

'You're the expert.'

'Hardly.' He sighed again. 'I'll bring it over, your highness.'

'Thank you!'

It was only as Arya returned to her table that she realised she'd left her bag, her devices and everything all over the table in plain view for any Flea Bottom scumbag to steal. That was foolish.

Then again, it might well be that the stories about Flea Bottom that were told anywhere else were less than the truth.

'Watch your stuff,' Gendry said when he brought her fresh tea. 'Thieving little shits will have it if you're not careful.'

'Even in here?'

'Everywhere. Not just here, anywhere in town.'

'You're suspicious and cynical, you know.'

'Yep.'

'Thanks for the fresh tea.'

'I'll put it on your tab.'

'I have a tab?'

'You do now, your highness.'

Arya took a bite of cake, then sipped her tea. He was, of course, correct about the combination. She raised her cup to him in salute and received a dismissive wave in return, but there was a hint of smile just the same.

It was possible to feel at home within three weeks. Which compared to the previous three years was quite something.

*


	3. Honesty Without Telling The Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the comments. Sorry there's a smidge of a delay - I had much of this written not long after posting ch2 but I didn't get a chance to finish it until just now. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy - it's a bit of a change in pace from the first two chapters. 
> 
> Also, a note on history and worldbuilding: I'm working on the presumption that while some names (people, places etc) might have changed in 1000 years of Westerosi history, many would've stayed the same, or very similar. There are some very old lineages in the UK, for example, and if we take Westerosi history as being 10,000 years then perhaps 1000 isn't quite so much in terms of change as it is for us? I don't know - just a notion. Equally, I've got a world which is both modern and Westerosi so I'm going with some modern Real World language and ideas and yet also some things where I feel like the RL names don't quite fit. Again, just a notion. Hopefully it all makes sense, though - in this instance, don't look into it too much!

Wherever it was that Arya  _ felt _ at home, she  _ actually  _ lived at the eastern end of River Row - one of the best addresses in all Westeros. You could not  _ buy _ such a property - one could only be born or marry into it. 

The building itself was only two hundred years old, much taller than it was long or wide, with a simple design that spoke of its original use as servants' quarters and storage.

Arya lived on the ninth floor in a flat with an unrestricted view of Blackwater Rush. It was, she thought, the only good thing about living there. Her sister living on the top floor directly above was tolerable; her mad White Harbour cousins living directly below was not good. 

It didn't help that historical building laws restricted any useful renovations: her windows rattled in the wind, letting in freezing draughts; her boiler took half an hour to heat half a bathful of water; she had only two electrical sockets in each room, and CloudWork only worked adequately in one corner of the (out of date) kitchen and the balcony.

She didn't necessarily mind living in a museum, but she very much minded living surrounded by the same hundred or so people she'd know all her bloody life. The Great Families of Westeros' power may have waxed, waned and changed over time, but they were still much as they'd been for hundreds of years. In a few cases, thousands of years. Arya's own surname was one of the oldest in all the land, along with the Daynes, the Hightowers and the Blackwoods. By comparison, the Baratheons and Tyrells were relative newcomers - although few of them appreciated being so reminded.

King's Landing was the kind of place where one really could not escape that lengthy history or the restrictive present of bearing one of the Great Names. At home, most people just knew her as Arya, in her own right.

Yet, here she was in King's bloody Landing, despite swearing she'd never return after her father's ill-advised stint in national politics trapped her here for two years of her young life.

Her thoughts were broken by loud footsteps upstairs that rushed back and forth, back and forth.

'SANSA, SHUT THE FUCK UP!'

God, she  _ hated it here _ . Arya would've stayed in the North forever if she'd had her choice, but Deepwood University specialised in earth sciences and Northern culture. Oldtown had the best Business Studies degree in the world, so she went there for three tolerable years, only to realise that to get anywhere investment-wise, she had to come to bloody King's Landing.

Her pocket-device let out a sharp trill, and with a heavy heart, she answered: 'Hello, Mum.'

'Don't shout at your sister through the ceiling, Arya. It's not becoming.'

'Did she actually- she hallooed you to grass me up? That's not reasonable behaviour!'

'You're acting like a child, Arya.'

'Because you and she treat me like one. I can only respond to the stimuli I receive-'

'Don't give me that.' Her mother's capital accent cut across her in sharp, precise consonants. 'That isn't why I hallooed you.'

'Oh, do tell.'

'Sarcasm does not become you.'

'I fail to agree.'

'Arya.'

'Sorry. How may I be of service, Mummy?'

'Don't take a tone with me, young lady. You have a responsi-'

'I'm sorry, I just meant to be funny.'

She could almost  _ see _ how her mother's shoulders tensed at that. 

Fortunately, Catherine Stark had something more important to discuss than her opinion of Arya's humour.

'Your grandmother is coming to King's Landing next week.'

'That's so awesome! Hang on, which one?'

'Surely either would be a welcome guest?'

'Well, yeah.' Arya did love both her grandmothers, but Arya Styr was her  _ favourite _ , and not just because she was another Arya. 'But...'

'It's Arya, yes.'

'Why is she coming here?'

'That's what I want to talk to you about, dear.' Catie Stark sounded too gentle. This was going to be bad news.

'What's the matter?'

'She's coming to the hospital, Arya. She needs specialist treatment.'

The bottom of Arya's stomach fell in a single drop, and her whole body shivered cold with dread. 'What for?'

'We don't quite know. I wanted... she isn't her usual self, dear.'

'Are you coming with her?'

'She refused.'

'Of course.'

'She'll be on the Rail on Tuesday arriving into Godsgate Station at 10:02. Will you collect her, please?'

'Well, yeah.'

'You don't have any work that day?'

'The good thing about working for yourself on a business that doesn't exist yet is that you can do what you like.'

'As long as you have generous parents bankrolling you.'

'Well yeah.' Arya rolled her eyes. Oh, to be in a position where she could tell her mother to stuff her generosity... 

Mind you, she would never really be 'self-made', would she? Everything she had came from the Stark family's extensive wealth, reputation and her mother's connections. She rather abruptly thought of Gendry at the Coffee Shop. Did he have  _ any _ such support? She rather doubted it.

'Arya, are you listening?'

'Sorry, I just got distracted about work things. What did you say?'

'You'll need to get a hack, Arya. She isn't well enough to walk, no matter what she says.'

'Mummy, Granny Arya is three hundred and six years old; I'm not going to make her walk from Godsgate to home. Who do you think I am?'

'For once, Arya, I'm not talking about  _ you _ . I'm talking about what she'll say she can do and what she actually can't. Please, take me seriously -even if she won't.'

Ah, there it was. Catie was having in-law issues again.

'All right. I'll be there. Why didn't you ask Sansa?'

'Because, and it pains me to say this, you are the only person left alive who can persuade the old crone to do anything.'

It was not big or clever, but Arya grinned at this. 'Nobody tells proper Northerners what to do, Mummy.'

Catie's weary southron sigh made Arya want to laugh, but thoughts of her grandmother sobered her. 

'I'll look after her. I promise.'

*

Tuesday arrived as they have a habit of doing, and Arya was up and ready long before she needed to leave. Sansa was unhappy at being passed over for such important familial responsibility and had turned up at her door just as the Keep Bell rang out to mark eight o'clock.

'It'll be fine,' Arya said. 'I tidied up and everything.'

Actually, she'd called the cleaner to make an extra last-minute visit on double pay, but close enough.

'I can come with you,' Sansa fussed. 'I can move my ten o'clock meeting with the Board of Donors to-'

'Sansa. How old am I?'

'Twenty-five. Allegedly.'

'Of the two of us, who travelled Essos for three years and managed to come home unscathed?'

'Mostly unscathed.'

'Mostly, sure. My point is that you're treating me like some idiot child when I'm not.'

'Yes, but you-'

'My life is not your life and vice versa. Me and Granny Arya will be fine.'

'Are you sure you don't mind her staying here? I have more room upstairs-'

'Sansa.'

'Sorry, sorry. I just... I worry.'

'I know. You worry more than anyone from Wall End to Sunspear. There is one thing you could do.'

Sansa all but leapt at her. 'Yes?'

'Dinner this evening? I don't suppose she'll want to go out after travelling down, so-'

'Say no more! I'm on it. I'll halloo Mummy about dietary requirements and...' Sansa was gone then, in a shake of bracelets into in a world of event-planning. Quite what dinner would look like by the time it happened was anyone's guess.

Although she'd been told not to let Granny Arya walk home from Godsgate Station, Little Arya happily walked the opposite route. It was, even on a busy morning, only half an hour from the south-east corner of the old city to the north-west corner of it thanks to the clear, direct route of the People's Way.

It was busy around Kingdom Square in the exact centre of the old city, so Arya ducked into side streets and alleys to avoid the crush and took that strategy the rest of the way to Godsgate Station.

She  _ hated _ the station. It was built on the ruins of the old City Walls and replaced the original beautiful First People's Rule Period station buildings. Where that had been a glorious symbol of democracy rendered in carved, gleaming white Crownland stone, this was a bleak, blank box of mud-brown concrete that aged poorly, even though it was barely twenty years old.

It was  _ always _ too busy - the chances of actually getting a hack outside were next-to-none even at ten o'clock in the morning.

Still, she dutifully fought her way onto the concourse and looked for the Northern Flyer on the Arrivals board.

Ah, yes. It was delayed by ten minutes - probably the Hayford Viaduct bottleneck. She waited as close to Platform 6 as she could, the better to see and collect Granny Arya. 

At 10:17, the train finally hummed to a stop. The hiss of the magnets releasing was Arya's cue. She watched the commuters and tourists rush past and then finally; there was Granny Arya.

She bit back a sob. Granny Arya was a great tall lady, as strong and powerful as anyone who could claim the closest links to the ancient First Men. Granny Arya's family were the final- direct link to the Thenn of old - there was no besting  _ them  _ on a good day.

The frail woman who shuffled up to Arya was definitely Granny Arya, but it wasn't the woman she'd last seen. If it turned out Granny Arya had dug up her own grandmother's corpse, reanimated it and brought her along for the journey, that would make more sense than this. 

'Cheer up, love - might never happen.'

Arya cracked a grin. Still Granny Arya after all.

'Look like you've seen a ghost, my wean.'

'No, just-'

'Ah, I'm teasing. I know I look like a trainee corpse.'

'Granny!'

She chuckled, the same throaty growl it'd always been, although punctuated with a rattling cough. 'Right, which way from here?'

'We'll get a hack from-'

'A hack, Arya Stark? Who'd you think I am?'

'All right,' Arya challenged. 'We'll walk  _ if _ you can prove to me that you can lift your right foot off the floor.'

In all her life, Arya Styr had listened to two people. One was her beloved, and the other was her favourite grandchild. She'd have thumped anyone else for the rudeness of such a remark. 

Granny Arya scowled. 'Aye.'

'I'm sorry.'

'Don't be sorry for telling t' truth. Just... fucking old age is fucking horrible, Arya. I don't recommend it.'

'Yeah, but it's better than the alternative.'

Granny Arya chuckled again. 'Gods, but I fucking hate this fucking town.'

'Me too.'

Granny Arya's visible frailty meant that the queue of people waiting for a hack insisted she go ahead of them and the wait was mercifully brief. It was getting hot already, and Arya didn't want her grandmother wilting on the street.

The hack had CoolAir - they both sighed in relief even though traffic meant it barely moved for five minutes.

'So,' said Granny Arya. 'What's going on with you, my wean?'

'Well...' Arya's depiction of her life in King's Landing took the journey up the People's Way almost to the summit of High Hill.

'I ain't got a permit for the top of the Hill,' the hack driver told the as he stopped close to the gates. 'Will you be all right, missus?'

Arya Styr waved him off as Arya Stark paid. 'Yes, thank you.'

The High Hill Gate was the newest part of the top of the Hill; installed when the Second People's Rule began and the old families decided to let it happen in the spirit of survival but didn't want their homes overrun. These days, the gates were open to let tourists explore the oldest part of King's Landing and to give the impression that democracy existed. Still, vehicles without special dispensation had no chance getting past the guards in their bright Second People's Era uniform.s

So, Arya took her grandmother's arm and helped her navigate the twisting cobbled street that led to the Stark part of High Hill. Arya lived in the smallest of the three Stark buildings, as befitted her youth and lack of political importance.

'Looks like a bloody tomb,' Arya Styr muttered as they passed the official Stark townhouse. She wasn't wrong, of course. It was built from forbidding slabs of grey Northern Granite, intended to intimidate and impress more than function as a house for real people to live in. 'Bloody horrible.'

'Well, you don't have to stay there. But does Uncle Brandon know you're down?'

'No, and I don't want any fuss.'

'Granny-'

'Arya, no.'

'All right. Come on then,' Arya held the door open for Granny and then called the lift. 'How long are you here? Mummy didn't say.'

'I don't know.' Granny Arya leaned against the lift wall for support as it rose through the floors. 'Doctor decides, I suppose. But Arya, know this: I am not dying in the south.'

Another stomach drop. 'Of course.'

'If it comes to it, put me on a fucking train and take me back home. Winterfell will do, but I'd really prefer to go home to Wall End.'

'All right.'

'Good. That's out the way, so- Sansa!'

Sansa was waiting by Arya's front door and greeted her grandmother with an unrestrained affection that she rarely showed anyone these days. 'I'm sorry I couldn't come to meet you, but I rearranged some things, so I'm here for anything you might need and-'

'Come, sit with me.'

'Don't you need any-'

'Just come and sit with your old granny for a bit, Sansa-wean.'

Soon enough, the three Starks were settled on Arya's sofa with cake and tea.

Arya settled back, content to listen to Granny and Sansa talk for now.

'...I hardly see her, Granny. I don't know where she takes herself, but we don't see as much as we'd like. It's a busy place.'

They were talking about her; she was sure.

'Where do you go every day?' Sansa asked, clearly having been dying to ask for weeks.

Arya felt a strong desire to keep the Coffee Shop to herself. She was used to being honest without actually telling her family the truth, so she answered: 'Here, there... I explore. I do some work in the King's Library and sometimes in cafes or whatever.'

'When will you be ready to get started?'

'When CopperBank says yes.'

'They will, my wean.' Granny Arya's complete confidence in her was enough to start her crying, but she did not.

'Now,' Sansa changed the subject. 'I've put together a suggested schedule based on your hospital appointments so that we can be here-'

'How do you know when my appointments are, Sansa?'

'I called the wellbeing centre and asked for-'

'They're not allowed to just give out patient information!' Arya cried, quite outraged.

Sansa shook her bracelets. 'I may have explained that I am one of Granny Arya's legal guardians while she's here. Anyway, I have a schedule here-' she pulled out her pocket-device and scrolled through. 'Now, I've marked where I can attend with you in blue and the other appointments I've rather assumed Arya will be able to-'

'I can go on my own, wean.'

Sansa and Arya both objected firmly to this notion, and Granny Arya relented, if only because everyone knows you can successfully argue with one Stark but not two.

They settled back into regular conversation for a little longer until Granny Arya confessed her wish to sleep a while. Sansa insisted on showing her to her small room, even though it was Arya's flat.

'Really,' Sansa emerged from the room and closed the door behind her without a sound. In deference to their grandmother's rest, she shouted at her sister in nothing more than a whisper. 'You couldn't give Granny Arya your much more comfortable bed for now?'

'I offered, she refused even to consider it. She's a Styr of the Thenn, what was I supposed to do?'

'Take it seriously!'

'I am taking it seriously!'

'She is  _ dying,  _ Arya!'

'I've got fucking eyes!'

'Don't take it out on me!'

'I'm not!'

'You're swearing at me!'

'I'm swearing near you, it's not the same at all.'

'I might be dying,' Granny Arya called out. 'But I'm not fucking deaf. Stop arguing, will you?'

Arya began to laugh at that, and Sansa could only hold out a moment or two before joining her. Then, tears streamed from their eyes and they settled on the sofa to weep for a death that hadn't even happened yet.

'It'll be all right,' Sansa whispered when they were both a little calmer. 'We'll get her to her appointments and that will help.'

'For now.'

'For now is all anyone has,' Sansa whispered.

Arya reached over and squeezed her hand. 'Yeah, I know. Sorry.'

There might come a time when her sister was not heartbroken over the sudden and much-too-soon death of her university boyfriend, but Arya doubted it would happen any time soon.

'Where have you been going lately?' Sansa asked again. 'I'm just curious.'

'The library,' she repeated. 'And I found a couple of coffee shops I like.'

'That's nice.'

'Life ok with you?'

'I muddle along.' This was Sansa's refrain, borrowed from their mother, who inherited it from hers as a way to speak out about one's pain without admitting it.

'I hope it gets better than just muddling along soon. You deserve better.'

'I do. So do you, Little Arya.'

'Don't call me that!'

'As long as Granny Arya's here, you're Little Arya. That's the family rule as set out by-'

'Yeah, yeah. Just... it'll be all right, won't it?'

'One way or another, it will be all right,' Sansa promised.

Arya, you see, was not the only Stark who could answer honestly without telling the truth.

*


	4. Now, there's a novelty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the super comments so far - I'm glad this odd little idea has found a few readers!

Granny Arya stayed in King's Landing for three weeks, receiving treatment for the things that would kill her sooner rather than later. 

'You can't cure old age,' she had barked at one doctor, who'd listed a range of invasive options. 'Well, there is one way, but it's quite final-'

'You're scaring the nice doctor, Granny,' Arya had muttered to her, which earned her a laugh from them both.

It had been one of the few light moments. Mostly, Granny Arya was dying. While she seemed quite at ease with the notion, she tired quickly and Arya's hopes of spending much quality time with her were crushed. So, she'd set aside almost everything that wasn't spending time with Granny Arya - except her early morning gym time - and wrung every scrap of time she could get with her.

Now, she was putting Granny Arya back on the train north. The station was as horrible as always, but Catie Stark had arranged for a golf-cart riding attendant to meet them and help Granny Arya safely onto the train.

'Sure you don't want me to come with you?'

Granny Arya waved her off. 'I'll be fine, wain.'

'I'll come to visit. Give me- tell me when you're-'

'Aye, I'll do that.'

Arya kissed her grandmother, hoping she had infused the moment with all the love and affection she felt. From the glimmer of moisture in Granny Arya's eyes, she thought she might have managed it.

'Now,' Granny Arya said. 'What are your house words?'

Arya blinked, confused. 'Winter is coming.'

'And what are my house words?'

Arya grinned now. 'Fuck winter.'

'Right. Don't be afraid, don't be sad. Kick winter in its freezing arse.'

'I love you, Granny.'

'I love you too. With all my cold Thenn heart, I love you. Go and make the world a better place.'

'I'll do my best.'

'Good girl.'

Granny Arya allowed the attendant to help her into the golf-cart, then they moved almost soundlessly away.

Arya waited until they were out of sight, off to the platform and the train heading north. She let several hot tears fall, then scolded herself to keep it together. She had things to do.

Her walk back into the centre of the old city took her first to the library for more history books - Arya Styr had given her some good ideas - and then it seemed quite natural for her to meander to The Coffee Shop to start reading them.

It was busy - the lunch crowd hadn't yet left. Gendry the barista wasn't working, and the young woman with spiked platinum hair who served her had the glazed expression of someone who was close to the end of her shift and was well and truly _done_ with people.

Arya ordered quickly and politely, flashing the woman a smile that she understandably did not reciprocate. 'And I'll have a slice of the chocolate cake, thank you.'

Transaction complete, she took a seat at the only free table in a back corner and proceeded to read one of the books she'd taken out from the library.

As with previous ventures into Coffee Shop cake, this one had a hint of _something_. Rose? Something fragrant and unexpected that pulled her attention away from the book she was reading.

She received several device messages from her mother and Sansa, which she ignored, and one from her dad, which she did not.

**Dad:** You OK, lass?

 **Me:** I will be.

 **Dad:** call me later.

_Milord_ Stark satisfied (for now) Arya resumed reading. She'd always assumed the Dawn Age was relatively dull, with its chivalry, peace and quiet. Still, she was already getting sucked into the tale of King Bran, Fourth of His Name and his complicated attitude to public works and private relationships.

Arya Styr always knew best. Such a thought sent traitorous, unhelpful tears to her eyes again, but she summoned all her very best emotional repression to smash the feelings back down to the dark pit where they belonged.

She did such an excellent job that she read six chapters before so much as looking up from her book. When she did, she was a little startled to see Gendry the Barista at the counter, looking over at her, a frown bringing his eyebrows almost together.

The big steel clock next to the specials board took her aback - had she been reading for a full hour without so much as noticing the passage of time? 

The creak of her knee as she stretched her legs told her that _yes_ , she had done precisely that. Her drink was cold, untouched, so she put her book down and took the mug back to the counter.

'You all right?' he asked, mostly focused on refilling the coffee grinder with fresh, richly-scented beans. 'I thought you'd turned to stone.'

'Just... good book. May I get a fresh tea? Please.'

'Course.' He slapped the bag of beans back down to make her tea. 'Haven't seen you around for ages. Thought you'd got over the novelty of slumming it with us-'

'That's stupid. I just had... other stuff going on.'

He frowned again. 'Well, I hope it was good stuff.'

'It was...' She thought of Granny Arya's almost-translucent, paper-thin skin under the bright hospital lights. 'It was stuff.'

'Fair enough.' Gendry didn't seem at all bothered by her unwillingness to share - probably because he was only making polite conversation with a customer. 'What're you reading that's so engrossing?'

'Just a history book.'

'Oh yeah? Which bit?'

'The Brans. I'm up to the Fifth of his Name and wish they'd just choose a fresh name. But... Brandon Stark is a name that literally stretches back to the dawn of history, so...'

'You related to that lot? I mean, you're a Stark, aren't you?'

'I'm a Northern Stark.'

'I don't really know the significance of what you just said. I remember the line of kings went extinct but...'

'The Northern Starks are directly descended from Queen Sansa the Bold. We can trace our line back to the First Men.'

'So you live in...'

'Winterfell, yes.'

His jaw did drop a little at that. 'Actual Winterfell, the castle?'

'Yep.'

'Not the city, the castle?'

'Well, I live here at the moment.'

'Of course. So... when I called you a rich girl-'

'A bit of an understatement, yeah. Except, I did mean it: I don't really have anything of my own. My _dad_ is one of the wealthiest men in the country, but I'm just... his kid. I'm twenty-five years old, and I'm still on an allowance.'

'Yeah,' Gendry scoffed, leaning against the counter and coming remarkably close. 'But I bet your allowance is a fuck-ton more than most.'

'I'm not running out buying fancy clothes or cars if that's what you're asking. On the other hand, I live rent-free in the centre of King's Landing. I'm... I'm aware of my privilege, you know. Please don't think I'm not.'

'I'm starting to get an inkling.'

'An inkling? There's a neat trick.' The double entendre was out of her mouth before she could stop herself.

He blushed at that and began to stammer that he hadn't meant _that_ at all.

'I know,' she replied as an easy, pleased sort of satisfaction rolled over her at discombobulating him so completely. 'But now I know your weakness, and I am honour-bound to exploit it for my own ends.'

He blinked. 'Now, there's a novelty.'

It was her turn to splutter at having her gag thrown back at her so completely and so quickly. He threw back his head and laughed out loud, which she hadn't previously considered possible.

'What?'

'Your _face_! Nobody ever snaps back, do they?'

'Not really,' she was obliged to admit.

'Explains _so much_.'

'Don't you have work to do?'

'Don't you have a book to read?'

'I do.'

'Well, then.'

'Well, then.' She tapped her device at the reader to pay, then stomped back to her table.

Arya tried very hard to get back into the book that had captured her attention so thoroughly before but knew before she even sat down that it was a losing game.

How could she read a book when she kept looking over at Gendry every ten seconds?

He was right: almost everyone in her life treated her as _Stark_ first and Arya second. Those that did were not always inclined to challenge her. There were some in Winterfell who treated her as an individual and couldn't be cowed by the invocation of her father's name, but most people were quick to fawn over the littlest Stark if it meant they might somehow curry favour with the patriarch. Even in Kingslanding, her name had a transformative effect upon attitudes. Gendry, therefore, was a surprising exception.

The sensation, once she was over the shock, wasn't unpleasant.

*


End file.
